All These Little Remonstrations
by Aurore Sibley
Winged things have always visited me. There was the fledgling
Robin who’d fallen from his nest—we made a bed for it in a shoebox, gave him
Worms and water. He either mended and flew away one day, or our parents
Removed him before we could see—I do not know which.
And there was the brown bat who’d injured his wing in a sudden thunderstorm,
I tried, but how could a brown bat fathom that my gloved hands
Wanted to stall death? I’d only imagined that he could sip water
From a tea saucer, that my remonstrations could change his longevity.
And when I asked for help, there was the hummingbird with its honeyed
Needle of a beak. And when I asked for a miracle,
There was the hawk with its precision of flight.
What I like about birds and flying things—they always sing the truth.
I believed you when you said this was something to be counted on—your love,
Like the certainty of seeing the turkey vultures circling above the hills in Big Sur,
Always and again, intent, so that
When you changed your mind without explanation, it was like
That time that a red-tailed hawk fell out of the sky and dead at my feet.
I was standing at a bus stop on a busy San Francisco street corner,
And it made no sense.
It was so beautiful, but there were no remonstrations my hands could perform,
No song I could sing, that would bring it back to life.